


everything we think we need

by archer_of_fate



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Dom/sub, Head Shaving, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4073785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archer_of_fate/pseuds/archer_of_fate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gansey is home, Gansey is everything he wants but knows he can never have in the way Ronan needs him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everything we think we need

The weight of the clippers feels grounding, reminding Ronan that this is real, this is not a dream. His expression in the mirror is haggard, but grim—he can’t sleep, he won’t sleep. He is afraid of what he will dream, especially here in Monmouth with Gansey so close.

Gansey appears as if summoned, and Ronan feels the urge to bark a laugh. Gansey, with his damnable ability to sense when something is amiss, though logically Ronan figures that the light seeping from under the bathroom door was telling enough.

He catches Gansey’s eye in the mirror, blue on hazel, and something unspoken passes between them. Ronan flicks the clippers on and the buzzing fills the quiet, enough that he hopes that Gansey can’t hear his racing heart. 

“Don’t just stand there like an idiot, Dick,” he bites out, too brusque, eyes darting away from Gansey’s in the mirror. Most days looking at Gansey is like looking at the sun—too bright, and far too dangerous. His heartbeat ratchets up a notch when Gansey wordlessly takes the clippers from his hands, one hand settling at the junction of Ronan’s shoulder and neck to guide him to sit on the toilet. 

For all of his harshness and all of the sharp edges, Gansey knows what he needs. The tension in Ronan’s shoulders drains away with the firm pressure of Gansey’s hand on his neck, his thumb a brand beneath the hinge of Ronan’s jaw. Ronan tilts his head to the right obediently and his eyes shut. The buzz of the clippers seems louder in the middle of the night, and Gansey is a silent but familiar presence.

Ronan breathes, in and out, and all he can smell is Gansey—mint and leather, and underneath that the tang of sweat. Something prickles hard behind his eyes at the same time that the familiar want twists hard deep in his gut; Gansey is home, Gansey is everything he wants but knows he can never have in the way Ronan needs him.

And he does need him, even if Ronan desperately pretends that he doesn’t, angrily tries to deny the part of himself that wants to belong completely—body, mind, and soul—to Gansey. This is all he has to content himself, these few stolen moments where Glendower seems distant, where he doesn’t have to watch Gansey watch Adam or Blue. Where it is them, the two of them, like it had been in the beginning. 

Gansey steps closer, making measured, smooth passes with the clippers over the top of Ronan’s head, front to back. After a moment the clippers flicker off and his hand, warm and large, passes over his handiwork, brushing off lingering bits of hair. 

“You almost look respectable,” Gansey quips, and Ronan doesn’t have to look up to see the faint grin—he knows it is there, as sure as he knows that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. “The neck now,” Gansey mutters, more to himself than to Ronan, and steps even closer.

Ronan shifts, making room, knees splaying so Gansey can stand between them. He purposely doesn’t look at Gansey, feeling too small for his skin and uncomfortable for the strange intimacy. Ronan can hardly resist as Gansey’s palm guides his head forward so that his forehead is pressed to Gansey’s hip. 

The clippers must come back on, Gansey must finish the job, but Ronan feels like he does when he wakes from a dream—out of his body and quite unable to do anything but wait for this to be over. Ronan is content to breathe in Gansey, to feel the warmth of that hip through thin layers of cloth, knowing that this will become yet another thing they will not talk about.

The brush of Gansey’s palm over his head makes Ronan sit back up, and Gansey steps back slightly before bending down to peer at him. His hand is like a brand, burning where it rests at the back of Ronan’s neck, and Ronan finds himself caught like a spider in a web, the sole focus of Gansey’s attention.

“You’re a new man.” Gansey says, and the slight quirk of his mouth is at odds with the serious, considering look in his eyes, like he is seeing Ronan for the first time in a long time.

The silence stretches, electric, and Ronan feels burned to ash beneath that gaze, but the thundering of his heartbeat proclaims him alive, alive, alive.

It’s hard to tell who leaned in first, but it doesn’t matters. Ronan kisses like he fights, with his entire being, trying to pour his devotion into Gansey, his hand clenched tight on Gansey’s bicep like he is afraid Gansey will try to run.

It is his worst fear, regarding this: that Gansey would look at him differently and everything about them would change. He knows that Kavinsky hangs like a specter between them, gone but not forgotten, and now that Gansey knows…

Gansey is still, and his eyes flutter open slowly when Ronan pulls back, gaze unfocused behind his glasses. Ronan’s mouth hardens, setting into a mulish line. “Forget it, Gans—”

The hand that comes up, quick as a flash, to rest at Ronan’s nape grips hard and shakes him once, like one would a puppy. Ronan goes lax in its wake, eyes wide and breath coming in what is close resembling a pant.

“Shut up, Ronan,” Gansey says, easily. He raises his eyes to meet Ronan’s, and Ronan’s breath is gone in one fell swoop—it is a punch to the face, beautiful and terrible.

Gansey-on-fire—his Gansey—stares back at him, and Ronan knows in that moment that he is lost. The hand on Ronan’s neck tightens and when Gansey kisses him, it is nothing like Ronan has imagined—it is better. Warm, firm pressure, and his Gansey kisses with a reckless abandon, tongue sweeping into Ronan’s mouth like he is trying to devour Ronan whole. 

Ronan surges to his feet, one arm looping around Gansey’s neck and the other around his waist, crushing them together. He wants to feel Gansey against him, he wants Gansey to consume him, he wants to be his in every way that he can. Ronan tears his mouth away from Gansey’s and kisses down the pale expanse of Gansey’s neck, sucks a hickey on Gansey’s collarbone because he can. Gansey’s breath stutters and Ronan bites down.

The effect is instantaneous—Gansey’s hands come up to grip both sides of Ronan’s face, and he kisses Ronan hard, messy with tongue. Someone whimpers, and Ronan realizes after a beat that it is him; Gansey smirks into his mouth and bites Ronan’s bottom lip hard before soothing it with a wet slide of tongue. 

The distance from the bathroom to Gansey’s bed isn’t very far, but their progress is slowed considerably by the fact that Gansey seems to delight in pushing Ronan against things and kissing him senseless. 

When they topple back to the mattress, Ronan pushes Gansey back and slides down his body. He mouths at the curve of Gansey’s cock through his pajama bottoms briefly before it is too much; he tugs the offending clothing down roughly, and sucks Gansey into the warm heat of his mouth.

Gansey gasps like he’s dying above him, his hand palming the back of Ronan’s head. Their eyes meet, hold, and Ronan sucks harder, takes as much of Gansey as he can and gags. 

“God, Ronan, you’re so good,” Gansey moans even as his hips thrust up, chasing that sensation of Ronan gagging around him yet again. 

It makes something spark inside Ronan, and he surges upwards, mouth fitting to Gansey’s like they have done this a hundred times. Gansey pulls him closer, their hips stuttering together as they find the best way to rut against each other. Ronan is too busy mapping the inside of Gansey’s mouth to register that Gansey’s clever fingers have slipped inside his pajama bottoms. The brush of fingertips over his hole makes him jump and tense, and just like that Gansey stops kissing him.

“Ronan, is this okay?” There is the same furrow between Gansey’s eyebrows that Ronan associates with Gansey trying to figure out a complex bit of Latin, but Ronan finds himself choked with words. He has never been good with emotions, and Gansey knows this…

“Do it,” Ronan commands, eyes flickering away from Gansey’s as he adds, “I’m yours.”

Gansey moans and leans up to kiss him, and his kiss is everything Ronan has ever wanted—firm, certain that Ronan will let him take everything he wants because Ronan is his. He slides out from underneath Ronan and pushes Ronan’s face into the pillow, tugging off Ronan’s pajama bottoms with a measured sort of control.

The first touch of Gansey’s mouth on the inside of Ronan’s thigh makes him tense, and he groans into the pillow, clutching it tighter. Gansey smiles and proceeds to suck a bruise there in the shape of his mouth. Ronan whines, knowing that this is deliberate—Gansey wants him to remember this, although Ronan is certain he could never forget.

Gansey’s tongue slides up Ronan’s thigh and up, over his hole. Ronan gasps out a sob, his hand reaching back to keep Gansey there, but Gansey catches his hand and tangles their fingers together. Ronan’s world narrows to two things: Gansey’s slick mouth and the grounding pressure of their hands twined together. But Ronan wants more, and Gansey seems to know this—Ronan wants it all, wants every bit of Gansey that Gansey will allow him to have.

Ronan lays there and lets himself feel, lets Gansey do what he wants to him. He couldn’t move if he wanted to, feels boneless and aches with want. Gansey is thorough, but there is a restless energy to his movements as he pushes his fingers deep into Ronan.

He pulls away and nudges at Ronan’s side with slick fingers, and Ronan flops over onto his back easily. Gansey moves over him, his smell all that Ronan can smell, and he leans in to touch foreheads with Ronan even as he begins the slow push of his cock inside Ronan’s body.

“Mine,” he pants breathlessly, but his hazel eyes search Ronan’s like he expects to hear a different answer—a flicker of uncertainty, of the boy Gansey is, uncertain that he deserves anything as momentous as Ronan.

“Yours,” Ronan promises, opening his body to Gansey even as he tilts his head up to kiss him, trying to pour all his devotion and all the things he cannot say into Gansey, to make him understand.

The first thrust pushes a gasp from Gansey, but both of them are otherwise quiet. The wet sound of their kisses and the sound of flesh against flesh are the only noises—the moment is holy, a joining that shouldn’t be sullied with vulgar moans. They are one, purging the memory of what was before and burning the past to the ground to build something entirely new.

One of Gansey’s hands, the one not clamped at Ronan’s neck, slides down Ronan’s arm to tangle with Ronan’s, an anchor in all of this. Ronan tries to pull Gansey even closer, every muscle straining as he bows upward to meet Gansey’s thrusts, open mouth pressing to the side of Gansey’s neck.

He bites down hard when he comes, and Gansey’s thrusts stutter, press forward hard twice more, and then Gansey collapses on top of him.

They breathe together, Gansey’s thumb brushing warmly over Ronan’s where their hands are joined. There is something lingering between them that Gansey is trying to figure out how to say. Ronan waits, uncertainty making him tense. 

“Is it true?”

Gansey sounds uncertain, and the fact that he sounds uncertain about this is preposterous. They’ve always been Ronan-and-Gansey, more together than apart. Ronan splays his free hand, the knuckles scabbed over, along Gansey’s jaw.

“Of course it is.” 

Gansey smiles, and when he ducks down to kiss Ronan he makes sure to bite Ronan’s lip first before his tongue is sliding into Ronan’s mouth like it belongs there. Ronan sighs into the kiss, comfortable for the first time in a long time, and lets him take what he wants.


End file.
